Which We Ascribe to Heaven
by BAnder54
Summary: Is it fate or coincidence? Scott and Johnny try to decide.


**Which We Ascribe to Heaven**

A flurry of horns and hooves was all it took, Johnny thought. It was raining, not soft drops that made you think of late summer corn growing in the fields, but hard spits blown side-ways from black skies that made hunkering down and cursing the clouds seem like a good idea. And still Scott stood there with head bowed, shirt ripped at the shoulder, mud sluiced up one side.

There wasn't anything his brother, or God, could do about it now.

He jammed his cold hands into coat pockets, found the rough edge of the boy's lucky gold coin. Forgotten until now, it was too late to put it in the makeshift grave because between the rain and the accident, they had to make up for lost time. He'd do it on the way home.

Frank murmured about the pissy weather, swear words wrapped around hasty prayers. Probably glad it wasn't him assigned to ride drag when hell broke loose. Erubiel wiped a palm against his stained cook's apron before making the sign: fingers brushing his forehead then down to his chest, up to the shoulder, first left then right.

Alonzo was a quiet kid, always had his head in a book of some kind, now he was dead. The parts they'd found were collected and buried together a few feet down in hard scrabble. No one was gonna change that fact, least of all Scott, no matter how hard or how long he looked at the mound of stones, wanting it to be different.

~o~o~o~

It was forty-eight hours later when the rain stopped and six miles to Conaway from where they left the herd in a grassy valley, chewing sodden grass. Scott, bit in his teeth, had pushed the crew and the cattle hard enough to make up for most of the lost time, but not near as hard as he pushed himself. Cipriano saw him veer off to circle around in front of a few tetchy cows. Like he knew where they were going to bolt before the cows did. More than four thousand pounds of steer and slippery mud against one man on a horse—the odds were stacked in the wrong direction.

Right there and then Johnny decided it didn't matter to his brother anymore.

Riding herd with Scott when he was thinking hard on something didn't usually make much difference. It had always been one of his more annoying traits: once learned, the job seemed almost second nature like he could do it in his sleep, or, in this case, wide awake and careless. Funny thing was, he'd never known his brother to be careless.

Johnny was entitled to have a say. What he wanted to do was grab the elbow of Scott's jacket and pull him up, have it out. He probably should, and not only because they were about to reach town.

Everything was raw since Alonzo had been buried. Like a few other times, mostly those early months when they'd first arrived to Lancer, he hadn't quite worked out what was going on in his brother's head. What he did know was that they were getting close to some sort of boiling point, yet Scott didn't seem inclined to jump out of the pot anytime soon.

And Johnny wasn't looking forward to the coming burn.

The cattle were checked, sold to Chick Wells, an acquaintance of Murdoch's. At the bank, Scott stood square on his feet as the money was counted, watching the coin and bank notes pass hands. All over and done, there was a smile for Wells and the teller, but back outside a thin hard line marred the crook of Scott's mouth. Johnny couldn't remember if it was new or had always been there.

_Hell, I understand that you liked Alonzo, but I wanna know why you're set on taking all the blame. Killing yourself over it is not gonna do anybody any good 'cause it won't bring the kid back. You're chasing your tail and I don't even think you know it._

Given the choice between that conversation and entering a saloon with a man inching his way towards _something_, Johnny knew exactly where his cowardice lay.

"This must be the place," Scott noted with his lopsided half-smile, pointing to the wooden sign suspended across the boardwalk: The Gem.

Johnny stared at the fancy scroll. Found he was biting the inside of his mouth, hard. Well, he wasn't going to watch Scott go into the there alone. Even he knew that wasn't a good idea.

The closed up room was lit like coal oil was free, and the man behind the bar gave them a thorough once-over as soon as they were through the door. Cipriano, Frank and a few other Lancer men were already there looking bored, either loitering around the bar or throwing down cards at their table. It occurred to him that no one was drinking. Frank lifted his shoulder, pulled it into a shrug and nodded towards Scott. So that's how it was going to be.

Johnny shepherded him to a side table in the shadows, where a brother could get a drink—or two—under the watchful eyes of his crew.

~o~o~o~

Scott looked away, and Johnny knew he wasn't going to get any answers. Not enough liquor yet. Beer never made a dent with Scott's mouth—you had to switch to whiskey or tequila for that. It was warm in the room with the lone window shuttered so he leaned back and opened his collar. When the bartender threatened to take away the half-full bottle after pouring their drinks, Johnny stayed his hand with a few coins. It was a start, anyhow.

It seemed like hours, and he had always liked the smell of smoke, the rumble of voices, the clink of glasses. One voice was missing, Scott's, and he closed his eyes for a minute or two, trying to think up a way to start.

"Alonzo dying out there wasn't your fault."

Scott flicked the words away like a gnat buzzing his ear, cast around for his glass and emptied it in one swig. "I made the assignments. He wasn't ready." He finally looked up, blank as canvas but not nearly as pliable.

A high pitched laugh echoed from the corner while another man moaned over his losing two of a kind. Smoke hung in the rafters like wispy curtains trailing in a summer breeze. The liquor sloshed and swirled in Johnny's glass dotting the scarred top of the table as he tipped it to and fro.

"Why are we here, Scott?"

"The tally was taken, the contract settled, why not celebrate?"

Not taking the time to shave before they left camp, Scott had fine stubble on his cheeks and chin. Sketches of dirt ground in by sweat or rain spotted his shoulders and collar, fingernails blackened by dried mud. To anyone else he was a man who worked cattle, but to Johnny it seemed out of place.

"So we're gonna get drunk, is that it? In celebration?"

"It's better than the alternative." Scott tipped the bottle up and poured himself anther drink. "Do you ever wonder why things happen, Johnny?"

The talk made Johnny nervous. "Don't make it complicated. Alonzo was in the wrong place, is all."

"So, a coincidence then."

"If I had something to say, you gonna jump down my throat?"

"What is it?"

"Are you sure you're ready to hear?"

"Tell me," Scott demanded. "What do you have?"

"Alonzo was a reckless kid. He knew enough about pushing cattle, but he didn't take it serious. Not when the time came, not when he needed to."

He tossed Alonzo's coin on the table, burnished gold glinting eerily in the dim lantern light, the well-thumbed words on its face almost worn off, like a talisman.

"Cipriano found it in the dirt. After."

Looking startled, Scott picked it up, fingered its edge. "Did you know Alonzo wanted to go to school? Found these words in a book somewhere, asked me what they meant." He flashed a grin at the memory. "I had to go back to my Latin and why I brought those papers out west is anybody's guess—maybe I wanted a piece of familiarity. But he liked the meaning, said it felt right to him, had it inscribed."

"What's the saying?"

"Data fata secutus, it means following what is decreed by fate." Scott laughed, and it was a brittle sound, like scratching metal against metal.

"Maybe those words are true, maybe Alonzo was supposed to be out there in the rain."

"Scattering my guilt so as not to have too heavy a load? No thanks, I'd rather cleave to it in one tidy bundle."

"Listen to me…"

"I knew Aaron wasn't ready, yet I gave the orders anyway," Scott interrupted.

"Who was Aaron?"

Scott swung his head up. "What?"

"You said Aaron instead of Alonzo."

"Did I?" The coin was dropped on the table like it was hot.

Before the talk could stop, he asked, "What happened? Something back east?"

"You wouldn't understand," Scott started, and Johnny ended up sighing.

"No, you're the one who doesn't understand. You liked Alonzo, I know. But not even that. You wanted to save him." He paused. "You wanted to save him," he repeated, locking eyes with his brother.

So Scott told him. Three or four sentences, that was all, and Johnny heard what his brother wasn't saying about his war, knew what his brother couldn't admit: orders were given, a friend died, and there wasn't much worse than that.

"Death by fate's decree. Is that what it is? For Alonzo, for Aaron?" He played with the rim of his glass. "I have to wonder why I'm the fulcrum."

He sounded calm, but he couldn't see his brother's eyes, and so had no idea what was whirring away in there, maybe quiet musings. But Scott did look at him then, eyes hollowed out, weary. Drop a stone in them and never hear it hit bottom.

Looking away, Johnny blanched. Like stuffing seed back into a ripped bag, he gathered his anger—for Scott, for Alonzo, the soldier back east who didn't live long enough—and wasn't terribly surprised to find they were all gnarled into a hard knot.

Scott rolled the empty bottle between two hands. He didn't move for a long moment, then looked toward the closed window, something like misery flitting across his face. "It will be okay," he said, and someone near the door dropped a glass, shattering it.

Johnny had no idea who he was talking to.

So he watched Scott, saw how he jolted gracelessly from the table, heel and toeing it to the bar for another bottle.

A square block of man, loud and immovable, was there, slapping his palm down to hurry up his beer. Scott tried to give him a wide berth, but there were too many others crowded around.

Jostled, the man turned awkwardly and pushed his Montana peak hat to the back of his head, calling out with a booming voice. "You cattlemen always act like you own the town." The first time he shoved at Scott's shoulder, his brother merely raised a hand. It was a warning rattle, Johnny pushed away from the table.

"You damn drovers need to stay out of the saloon!" And he jabbed a second time.

Scott's heavy fist plowed true to the side of the man's nose.

Johnny scrambled to his feet. For the first few seconds it went well enough. He was stone cold sober, and had too much experience in this sort of thing. Enough to know that after the first round or two, he would be real glad Cipriano and the boys were in the same saloon because experience wouldn't count for a hill of beans when locals got their outrage under them.

So he enjoyed the two hits he got in: one to a drunk's jaw when he got in the way and another to the stomach of a thin, mouthy cowboy who was most likely to make trouble.

Johnny was a good ten feet away when Scott slipped on wet floorboards and, if he hadn't twisted to avoid a solid right punch, would have missed it entirely. It wasn't so much the slide or the angle, but Scott bounced his chin off the edge of the mahogany bar on the way down.

When Johnny finally got there, his brother was getting to his feet flapping around like a guinea hen walking an uneven fence line. He tapped his bloody chin with two fingers. "Damn, that hurts."

"Scott, you all right?"

Tongue ran around teeth, doing a mental count. "I think so." He stepped back, bumped into the big man with the Montana peak hat.

Montana circled around, knuckles bunched and hard. He lunged and Scott dodged, sending his fist out, skimming the man's cheek with enough force his head lobbed back. He blocked another wild swing and caught Montana by the wrist; twisted his forearm a half-turn, shoved him back the way he came

The man made a sudden grab for his coat and something glinted silver in the shadowed saloon. Johnny watched in awful slow motion as it swung down towards Scott and blood spattered the floor.

He dove, head first in a tackle, wrapping his arms around the big man. All three fell heavily to the hard wooden planks of the floor. A dull thud of body against wood as Scott was thrown against the bar.

The fall lacked Scott's usual finesse and he ended up in a heap, his boot heel clipping the spittoon, sending it spinning towards the window. It might have been funny at any other time, but seeing the blood brought Johnny a surge of blind panic before he could find his feet. A split second's throwback to hot pistols and one more grisly death he couldn't prevent.

A shotgun roared behind the bar and finally—finally!—the saloon went silent.

"Did I just get knifed?" Scott wanted to know when he came to.

"Yeah." Johnny squatted to get a look at the long bloody stripe down Scott's forearm. "There goes our plan for soft, dry beds."

"What beds?" Scott groaned.

"Those would be the beds where we get off the wet ground and sleep inside for the night." Johnny looked up at the handful of men who stood paralyzed in a semi-ring around them. He reached up and grabbed the barman's towel. Took one look at the greasy stains and threw it aside. "Take it easy, you've got a cut on your arm here."

He had to rip the sleeve wider to get his fingers in and when he did, felt a warm, slick gush at the wound's edge. Scott twitched and caught his protest between his teeth. A second later, the seep of crimson darkened and grew on the checked shirt.

Johnny clamped his palm down over the slippery gash and felt the muscle seize.

Scott's face scrunched, but he stayed quiet and still.

Cipriano left Montana under the guard of two frowning Lancer cowboys and folded a neckerchief in half.

Johnny grabbed a whiskey bottle. He could probably get it over in one quick splash. Angling his hand away, he upended the remainder of the whiskey over the wound. Scott arced noiselessly at the assault. The neckerchief went around twice and was tied off at the wrist.

"You're looking kinda grey. You all right?"

"A bit dizzy," Scott confessed. "Although the whiskey may have a hand in that." He looked down at his arm, where blood already spotted the neckerchief. "I think I may need reinforcement."

He ripped a length from the hem of Scott's shirt. "One more time, okay?"

Johnny waited while his brother got a hand curled around the iron foot rail tracking the bar, and braced. Scott closed his eyes, nodded permission. He yanked it tight around the arm while Scott bit back the sharp spike of pain.

He clapped Scott's thigh, forced a grin. "There you go. That should do."

Blinking, Scott huffed out a few hard breaths through his teeth. "What's it supposed to do, except hurt like the devil?"

He was about to answer when the sheriff entered the saloon, stopping to take note of the bleary-eyed man guarded by Frank—only not so much guarding as holding up. Tin star hanging on by a thread, he shook his head like a tired old dog. A fight at The Gem must be usual doings in Conaway.

Johnny sat back on his heels, wiped his bloodied hands on his trousers for lack of anything else. Nothing usual about it, he thought. And he understood something about his brother, something that had somehow escaped him all this time, because Scott didn't often give up anything.

~o~o~o~

Erubiel looked up at Johnny from bandaging Scott's arm. Where the knife had sliced through shirt and skin, and where a few inches higher they could have buried two men on this trip. Scott, unaware and half-tipsy on saloon and medicinal whiskey, pushed the cook's hand away. Lifting an index finger, he pointed out over the tethered remuda to the pinks and yellows of the lowering sun in the distant west.

"Beautiful. The sort of ending to a day that makes you want to see more, doesn't it? No matter how hard it may have started out." His brow furrowed. "Are we predestined in this world, Johnny?"

Cleaning up the needle and threads, the cook tapped the whiskey bottle and raised his eyebrows, an explanation for the crazy talk. But it had nothing to do with the amount of liquor gone from the bottle.

Scott whistled low, shook his head. "I might have to argue that point. Data fata secutus, indeed."

Johnny winced, sucked in a breath. His fingers found the coin in his coat and flipped it over and over. They'd make the grave by tomorrow if the weather held. Was it lucky? Hell no, at least not for Alonzo. Blinking, he gave his rigid shoulders a rolling shrug.

He took it out and dropped it into Scott's breast pocket. Johnny watched him while holding his breath the same way he did when fingering a trigger.

Scott teased the coin through the fabric of his shirt for a few long moments, then dipped his head. Emotions flared—hurt, anger, pain—and through it all just the beginning of acceptance.

The End

04/13

A/N: The title of this story comes from _All's Well that Ends Well_ by William Shakespeare:

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,  
Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky  
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull  
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.


End file.
